


That deviant ingredient

by queerly_it_is



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Frottage, M/M, also the maps are alive, dirty talk sort of idk it's about bread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil is helplessly aroused by Carlos' naughty behaviour like eating wheat and owning pens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That deviant ingredient

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post and reposted here. Title from The B-52's. This is all Ari's fault.

"C-Carlos?"

Carlos hums around his toast, a little absent as he marks another X onto the latest version of the town map with a marker. He’s trying to pin down the pattern of churches that keep popping up in veneration to a birdlike god promising fiery death and Target discounts.

He wipes crumbs and a little butter from the side of his mouth, sucks his thumb between his lips to clear it. There’s a clatter behind him as he marks another X.

“ _Carlos?_ ”

"Hm," he starts, mumbles, "Yeah, Cecil?" while he grabs a paperweight to pin down the map’s eighth corner. He needs to buy more paperweights. Or step up his ‘ _Rectangles Cannot Harm You_ ' proposal for the Council.

"Are you, uh. Are you feeling alright?"

He looks up at that. Cecil’s standing off to his side, hands bunching in his rumpled work shirt. Carlos feels a flash of guilt for not saying hi when he’d come in from work. Come to think of it—

"Are _you_ alright?” Carlos asks. “You’re looking a little…” he gestures with the toast triangle in his hand and Cecil squeaks. “Yeah, that,” he says. “You’re not coming down with something are you?” He’s momentarily proud of himself for not fleeing the room immediately. The last bug that went around town had a weird accent and needed to be walked twice a day. It had called him ‘amigo’ in a patronizing sort of way.

"I’m—I’m uh," Cecil jitters, tugging at his collar even though he’s already opened two buttons. There’s sweat gleaming at his throat and a dull flush smeared across his face. Carlos misses the last of what he says when his marker tries to roll across the table onto the floor, and _then_ he has to catch the bit of toast he drops, crumbs trailing all down his lapel.

By the time he straightens up and shoves the pen into his pocket and the last of his toast into his mouth, Cecil’s just sort of… staring. And not in his usual fashion either.

"Seriously, Cecil," he says, stepping away from the table even if it risks the map getting loose and knocking something over again. "You feeling okay?" He licks his lips when a sharp bread grain rubs between them, and that’s when Cecil, well, _pounces_.

Carlos lets out a noise when his back hits the table and Cecil hits his front, a clatter of pens and rulers preceding the dull thud of a couple of paperweights, but Carlos is too busy dealing with Cecil’s tongue to notice.

There are — wow Cecil’s really going for it — several possibilities, he tries to remember — his belt clatters loudly under Cecil’s fingers — there’s those damn flowers with that  _pollen_ that John Peters is most certainly still growing — Cecil groans when he shoves his hand into Carlos’ pocket, which is maybe a little odd but not so much really, and his hand’s _right there_ , so — there’s the ‘secret ingredient’ that had the whole town banging (literally in some cases) on Big Rico’s door — Cecil’s biting at his lips and saying something about wholegrain, but it’s not like he’d given Carlos time to brush his teeth — station management might be in heat again, but Carlos hasn’t heard about any firestorms or plumes of lavender smoke, and — he’s pulling Cecil in by his ass and Cecil _does_ know that’s his marker and not his dick he’s playing with right?

"Is-Is there more?" Cecil mutters, hushed and hasty between laps over the teeth imprints he’s left on Carlos’ buzzing, stinging mouth.

"Mm, more what?"

Cecil grinds his hips down into Carlos’ and Carlos whimpers in what he hopes is at least somewhat seductive.

“ _Toast_ ,” Cecil breathes, and then he shudders from shoulders to knees.

Carlos has never seen anyone more excited about a snack in his life.

"I uh—" he leans into the kiss Cecil presses onto his mouth, feels the suction at his lower lip that runs straight to his cock. "In the kitchen, I think, yeah, why-"

"And the pens?" Cecil stammers, turning _pens_ into a five syllable word.

_Oh._

"In the drawer," Carlos says, slowing his voice down while he gets his fingers into Cecil’s belt loops. "Dozens of them."

Cecil moans, and the next kiss is a bruise that makes Carlos’ lips burn. “Tell me.”

Carlos keeps him there and snugs their hips together. “A-All kinds,” he says, willing his brain to work. “Markers. Twisty _and_ clicky-tops. Even pencils; all kinds of different colours.”

Cecil’s eyes are wide and his face is stained pink, his breath’s coming out in fits and starts against Carlos’ skin.

"Oh my god," Cecil croaks. "You’re—You’re a deviant!"

Carlos grins as much as he can with a vast amount of his blood supply focused below his waist. He tugs Cecil in by the back of his neck and says right against the shell of his ear. “There’s a whole loaf of bread out on the counter, where anyone could just walk in and see it. There’s another one in the freezer. Toast crumbs everywhere. I think the butter’s still out, Cecil.” He dips his tongue just barely into Cecil’s ear as he says, “There’s a bag of pasta in the cabinet.”

Three things then happen in short order:

Cecil makes a noise like he’s dying and ruts hard into Carlos in a few mindless jerks as he comes in his pants. Carlos braces himself against the edge of the table as the friction shoves him blind and helpless into his own orgasm, hot-wet pulses that cling to his skin and soak into the hem of his lab coat. All the paperweights roll simultaneously with Carlos’ momentum, allowing the map to flap its way free and out of the nearest window, a cry of, “ _perverts!_ " trailing ghostly behind it.

They’re left hanging off one another, limp and panting and specked with breadcrumbs. Cecil mouthing sloppily against the edge of Carlos’ jaw while Carlos breaths against his temple.

"Well," Cecil eventually says. "There’s no point in applying for absolution from the Sheriff’s Secret Police if you’ve got nothing to be absolved of, I suppose." He stumbles upright enough to give Carlos a _look_. “And we’re moving your… _stationery_ to the bedroom, for… for _important reasons_.”

"Okay."

"And you need to get better at hiding your illicit foodstuffs. We don't want a raid; you saw what they did with Big Rico, even his hatchlings! And-"

Cecil gives up when Carlos fits their mouths together again, hums and slumps into Carlos' body. When he looks down, there's marker all over Cecil's fingers.

Sometimes Carlos really loves this town, even if he has to go catch another map.


End file.
